Igen candidates continue to play Survivor on the island and find different ways of being useful to one another.

When

It is sunset of the sixteenth day of the fourth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Island Lavafield, Isolated Island

OOC Date

Island Lavafield

Crescent in shape, long dried lava rock provides a durable crust between the rocky shore and the tall volcano. Rippled and treacherous, walking here can be something of a chore. Closer to the rocky shoreline and that cave opening, it is worn smooth by the elements and other factors. That smoother area is sheltered with relatively youthful jungle growth, framed with tall palm-like trees and bushy fronds of vibrant greens.

The light's fading at the end of the candidate's second day of island exile, and things by now have settled into a get-things-done groove. At least they have for most of the newly-minted survivors, who are just getting on with things as they come. Amongst that group - having got over his initial freak-out at being dumped in foreign lands - is Thierry, who's sharing a stretch of coastline with a few other candidates, crouched on the rocky shore while his firelizards swoop in and out of the water in front of him. He's got a little pile of fish beside him, which he's working on gutting and scaling. Messy work, for sure, but he at least seems to have picked up the trick to handling the slippery buggers in the short time they've been there.
Majel has been settled on a rock not far from where Thierry's cleaning fish, working on mending some of the younger candidates' socks and patching up tears in shirts and pants where needed to help prevent further injury from the unknown local flora. Teeth will help sever thread where scissors don't exist; the tailor frowns slightly after depositing her one roll of thread back into her bag, but favors the youths who return to her for their things with a smile and an admonishment to be more careful next time. Eventually, she makes her way over to Thierry's side, casting a glance down at his work. Perhaps surprisingly, she crouches down, too, giving a quiet, "Want some help? It'll go faster."
Thierry looks up at Majel, brows low in a frown over his dark eyes. He tries tossing his head to get his hair out of his eyes without touching it with fish-guts fingers, then gives up and just peers up through it instead. "Whatchoo know about fish, thread-girl?" A flick of his knife sends guts splooching onto the ground, and he tosses that fish into the finished pile to start on a new one. "Y'gonna make me share the trade on 'em, if you've put in your work too?"
"What do you know about them?" Majel counters likewise, pulling a small blade of her own from her pack. It's a slightly worn tool, this, and likely something purchased for protection that hasn't yet had to see any action. There's an amused tug at the corners of her mouth for his questions. "I've my own skills to barter, as you well know, " she says frankly. "But if you'd rather I didn't help, " or shut up and stop talking, "I'll leave you to it." It's funny how being dumped in a jungle can encourage someone to foster better relationships.
The teen knows enough to messily get the scales off the fish he's working on, pulling a face and looking away as they flick messily all over the place - including onto his several-day-old scraggly beard. "I asked you first," Thierry replies, looking up at Majel with narrowed eyes. "Where'd you get thread from? I saw you fixing stuff. And needles? Where from, huh?" His lack of attention and inexperience cause him to slip; the blade of his knife sinks into the pad of his thumb, causing him to hiss. Dropping the half-scaled fish, he gets to his feet to go wash the superficial cut in the sea, wincing at the salty sting. "You carry 'em in your pockets or something?"
Bags of holding are amazing things. "I rolled a spool into a change of clothes before we left, " Majel explains, dropping her bag onto the ground next to where she and Thierry are settled near a pile of fish. "I was working on a new tunic right before they marched us all out here. Thread always comes in handy for something." Not the silvery, vegetation-eating kind, of course. Wincing in sympathy for his injury, she leans over to pull one of the fish nearer and begins scraping in careful motions, hands steady. "Between, " she adds more quietly without looking up, "is the scariest thing I think I've ever felt." Somewhere in there is acknowledgment of having noticed his discomfort from afar when they left, and an attempt to find more common ground than just their bazaar-origins.
Rubbing his thumb in the saltwater hurts, but Thierry tries to hide that fact in a scowl fixed on the waves. He lifts his hand, pressing down on the cut to stem the bleeding a little more as he watches Majel pick up the fish to scrape it. "Between is fucked up," he replies, "but it ain't that bad." Because, despite his legs having buckled with his obvious freaked outness after he got off Liareth, he's not going to admit to being scared. "Where'd you learn to do that?" The scaling stuff. "Thought you came from the bazaar." And clearly, since he is also from there and has no clue about such things, no other bazaarite should know them either.
One task done, onto another. It might look like Mayte's checking up on the Candidates, every so often peeking to observe over someone's shoulder, but she's laughing as almost each one wave her away. Approaching Majel and Thierry, Mayte is starting to look just a little dejected. She pulls up, and asks, with a tone of rote, "Anything I can help with?" Thierry's booboo gets a curious stare: Mayte offers, "Want I should get Yukie to take a look at that?"
Majel sits back on her heels after a few moments of cleaning, glancing up at him. "I watched you just now. It seemed like a slower motion, sort of like peeling the skin back from a fruit might work." As for coming from the same place, well. An eyebrow lifts. "Don't you?" Learn quickly or forget having a livelihood. Bending back to her task, she looks up again at Mayte's approach, hazel gaze assessing. "Perhaps. You look troubled."
"Huh." Thierry frowns at how quickly Majel picked up on something that probably took him a lot longer to figure out. "Yeah, I do. Y'know I do." Mayte's approach earns the former vintner a wry smile, and her question makes him shrug. He holds his injured thumb out to her, grinning smugly. "Mebbe you wanna kiss my booboos better, MayMay? Betcha them lips're magic."
Mayte gives Majel a brief shrug, "Not so much troubled. More, I keep trying to find things to do, and apparently I suck at everything just enough other than wine-making." This shall, according to Mayte's tone, not stand, but in the meantime: "Can I maybe take a spare knife to help out?" Thierry's offer earns a smirk, "I'd probably just infect it further, y'know. Dirty mouth an' all." Poor man, can't get any… succor. Still, "Y'want Yukie to make sure it's not infected or something?"
"You're one up on me, " Majel says lightly. "I don't know how to make wine." Placing the newly-cleaned fish to one side, she pulls another over and begins to carve its scales away in much the same fashion. "I don't know that we have any spare knives - or at least, I don't. This is the one I brought with me, but you're welcome to it if you'd like a turn." More absently, "The healers say that if it doesn't turn red or ooze, you'll probably be fine for the most part." All of that infirmary duty she's pulled is finally (sort of) coming in handy! Maybe.
Thierry pffts at Mayte. "Dirty ain't always bad, lady." And he'll suck on his thumb then, shaking his head at the offer of going to their Healer colleague. "S'only small. Just deep. Gotta new knife…" He holds said tool up, grasping the blade so he can hold the obsidian handle to Mayte. "It's sharp. Don't fucking ruin it, alright? Kyara gave it to me." And it's possibly the prettiest thing he owns. "Maj's right, anyway. If it ain't oozing gunk, it don't need no Healer poking at it." Then, leaning in towards Mayte while looking down at their fellow bazaar candidate, he whispers - loud enough for Majel to hear, "Mebbe she oughta come on in our cave, huh? She sews. Could be useful. And she's doing that fish alright."
Mayte's shrug is to Majel, "Anyone can make a decent brew, if they want to spend a bit of time thinking about what went wrong with the last batch," which is light enough but Mayte is already shuffling to move to the next, when Thierry's offer comes in. She eyes the blade handle, then Thierry, one smaller hand reaching for the blade. "I'll be careful with it." She nods her thanks and sits down next to Majel, already reaching for a fish. As for Thierry? "She can hear you, y'know. And I can switch out, no problem." A little wink to Majel, "She's more useful than me, right now!" There's no heat to Mayte's tone, a grin cracking over her face: "Can't make wine without grapes, right?" Though ultimately, self-deprecation doesn't entirely suit Mayte.
Majel may seem completely focused on her task, but there's a wry enough set to her expression at Thierry's stage-whisper to show that she's paying attention. "Maybe you ought to just ask her if she'd contribute her skills to the group's well-being, " is said dryly, just a beat after Mayte points out that she can hear him. A strip of fabric is ripped from something in her bag to wipe fish scales and innard-bits from her blade before she resheathes it. To Thierry, "I'll carry the cleaned fish back if you show me where to find this cave of yours." Shelter is good.
"No. You're staying." Thierry grasps Mayte's wrist in a gentle squeeze while he frowns at her. "There's room for all of us. Prym, Sass, Maj, you, me." He smirks, letting go of her wrist to loop his arm around her shoulder instead. "'sides, I gotta have someone's pillows to rest my head on, right?" And Majel is agreeing - sort of. "Mayte'll show you. Won'tcha, boozy?" He turns to blow a theatrically loud kiss at Mayte, before winking at Majel. Congrats, Maj: you're in on the secret hideout. "I gotta go find Caylon." Away he slips, padding along the beach before he disappears into the now-night.
Mayte tugs her wrist away from Thierry, only to be caught up in a half-hug. Oh ew, her expression says, though her mouth smart-asses, "Yea, yeah, Thierry's harem." Ducking the kiss just as theatrically, Mayte scowls at his back as the boy departs. Is it embarrassment in her tone when Mayte explains, "He's better than that." Hard to believe as it is. The knife is regarded and then Mayte tucks it into her belt: "Wanna go find out where we've been camping in?" Mayte stands, fish still in hand, and starts waving in the direction of the sleeping quarters. "C'mon, we'll getcha set up," and she waits for Majel before starting off, already chatting about the amenities, "And there's a little stream that cleans up real nice…"